


Ragamuffin

by colberry



Category: the GazettE
Genre: Boys Being Boys, Boys Kissing, Established Relationship, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, M/M, Uruha is too fab, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, that one aoiha fic that isn't angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:30:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colberry/pseuds/colberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Uruha fails to defend his choice in footwear and Aoi is a hypocrite as he wiggles his toes inside his orange Crocs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ragamuffin

 

 

Uruha had feathers stitched into his shoulder blades.  He had studded garter belts and fur trims that swept against his collarbone.  Uruha could shimmy himself into the occasional leather skirt and still pin you helplessly down with a heated gaze alone.  He whipped around long extensions, curled the locks until they were piled high -- dyed it ebony, bleached it like sun-soaked clouds.  Slender, black-painted fingernails tangoed with copper strings; pouty lips and kohl-rimmed eyes rivaled even Ruki's most bedazzled outfit and Aoi's most inconceivable backbend.    
  
So really, it was better that the fans didn't know the truth.    
  
Aoi slid his gaze from where he was collapsed into the couch cushions, cigarette snuffed out and coffee mug paused at his lips, to the atrocity that just walked into his living room.  
  
It was a perfect mishmash of irrelevant maroon jogging shorts, the bleach-spotted, fray-sleeved shirt Aoi swore he already threw out and, of course...  
  
Baby blue loafers.  
  
The rhythm guitarist couldn't help but hone in on the atrocious shoes, disregarding the jumbo-sized barrette clipping back a clump of blond hair ( _creating a perfectly proportioned dumpling-poof atop the guitarist's head_ ) and the stray smear of skin cleanser Uruha apparently missed on his jaw line.  
  
Aoi pursed his lips against the blue ceramic mug before blurting, "Charming."  
  
Uruha smirked around a spoonful of peanut butter swirl ice cream -- pint-sized tub ( _the one he snuck into the grocery cart without Aoi seeing_ ) clutched lovingly in his right hand -- and mockingly wiggled his toes inside the faux-pas footwear.  
  
Aoi tried not to gag when he spotted a hangnail waving coyly at him.  
  
"I'm pretty sure you're automatically disqualified from making comments, Mr. Pot-Kettle-Black."  
  
There's a lapse of silence as two pairs of eyes land on the orange Crocs nesting by the doorway.  
  
Aoi puffs up in indignation, perching just a bit straighter on the couch with his hands tightly wrapped around his favorite mug ( _the one Uruha gave him for his birthday -- two months early_ ).  Uruha's smirk tilts in amusement at the rhythm guitarist's uncanny resemblance to an affronted canary.  
  
The raven-haired man huffed, fingers absently drumming against warm ceramic, "That's different.  _Those_ are 'in'.  Even Saito-san has them."  
  
Uruha chuckled, swirling his spoon in gooey, peanut-butter-heaven, and raised a brow, "You're really going to use Saito-san -- the same guy who cleans out his nose hairs with a toenail clipper -- to defend those things?"  The blond guitarist almost lost himself to (manly) giggles when the elder narrowed his eyes despite the redness seeping into his cheeks.  
  
"Whatever, man," Uruha proceeded to dump the empty pint in the sink and waltz over to his put-out band mate, adding a suggestive sashay to his steps, "You and I both know that you're just completely twitterpated over me either way."  
  
Aoi decided to ignore the fact that Uruha just used the word 'twitterpated' -- and instead stole a glance at the bejeweled scrunchy ( _Aoi suspects it's one of Uruha's nieces'_ ) attempting to hold up the rest of the man's dark-rooted hair, faint traces of glitter spilling into the tousled tresses.    
  
But Uruha slinks over to him with a hooded gaze, honey eyes gleaming and daring the elder to _come-hither_ as if he were strutting in the most magnificent, lavish garb -- or the most kinkiest, sinful array.  
  
( _Aoi suspects Uruha has the latter in mind_ ).  
  
And dammit, he was _fucking twitterpated._  
  
"God, you're fucking hot."  
  
Uruha grins wickedly as Aoi yanks him down onto his lap, blue mug be damned as it's flung carelessly onto the carpeted floor, and the blond man finds the guitarist's eager lips.    
  
Aoi lets his fingers caress those maroon shorts ( _tracing every rip and tear_ ), rub across each bleach-stain on that shirt ( _he's memorized each one's place_ ), grab a handful of tangled hair ( _and glitter_ ) before he tugs out the barrette so the locks fall into his face.  Enveloped, intertwined, with this man completely, Aoi sighs and Uruha hums against his skin -- forehead to ( _slightly sticky -- Aoi's not gonna ask_ ) forehead.  
Utterly caught, smitten and content, Aoi allows a hand to slide beneath that maroon fabric and drift against a sculpted thigh.  
  
He paused.  
  
And smirked.   
  
"Sweetheart, I believe you missed a line."  
  
 _Twitterpated indeed._


End file.
